


The Stories They're Not In

by abrighteryellow



Category: One Direction (Band), Shawn Mendes (Musician)
Genre: American AU, Angst, Blow Jobs, Fluff, Fluid Sexuality, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, I left the time period undefined but it's somewhere in the late 70s or early 80s, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Making Out, Musicians, No instances of direct period-typical homophobia but there's trepidation about being out, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Secret Crush, Sexuality Crisis, Size Difference, Size Kink, Smut, Songwriter Niall Horan, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26952703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrighteryellow/pseuds/abrighteryellow
Summary: When he gets to his house, he makes a beeline for the piano his mother insisted he take when he got his own place and sits down, still wearing his denim jacket. He places the lyrics on the music stand, checks that there’s a new cassette in his tape deck, and pushes both the Play and Record buttons down.Then Shawn stretches his fingers, empties his mind, and plays “Too Much to Ask” – the only way he knows how.When a producer hands Shawn a randomly selected folder full of song lyrics, he inadvertently connects the composer with his creative soulmate. But Niall Horan proves to be so much more than that. And Shawn is terrified that his growing feelings will sabotage the partnership that could make both of their careers – and also end the deepest friendship he's ever known.An AU inspired by Niall Horan's "San Francisco," the movieRocketman, and Elton John and Bernie Taupin's real-life relationship (except more gay).
Relationships: Niall Horan/Shawn Mendes
Comments: 18
Kudos: 56
Collections: Heartbreak Weather Fic Fest





	The Stories They're Not In

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, huge thank you to Rebecca for organizing this fest. _Heartbreak Weather_ is probably my most listened to album in quar, and I'm so excited to read all the other interpretations of those songs.
> 
> Massive thanks also to Kim and Gillian for being the best last-minute betas a girl could ask for and for talking me through all of my meltdowns. I love you both!!
> 
> Note that the word "queer" is used (once) in a non-derogatory way. I know that cultural feelings about that word vary, but in an American AU, especially in this blurry '70s/'80s time period, it's realistic dialogue.
> 
> The title is from Matt Nathanson's "Last Days of Summer in San Francisco," which, imo, is the spiritual predecessor to Niall's song.

Mr. Clark wasn’t even looking when he selected a folder at random from the thick stack on his desk and handed it to Shawn.

“Here,” he said, “See if you can make something of these, and then we’ll talk.”

And it was very clear that Shawn’s audience with the record producer was over.

The dismissal wasn’t all that surprising, to be honest. Though he had shown up with the best he had, songwriting – as in writing lyrics with the ability to make people feel – has never been his strong suit. Shawn’s always figured that was just the universe evening things out, since music came so easily to him.

From the time he was big enough to climb onto his mother’s piano bench, he’s been able to play almost anything he hears by ear. When her friends asked her who taught Shawn how to use the instrument, she’d tell them that the good lord himself had seen fit to give him a gift.

But Shawn loved music too much to just go on regurgitating it. When he was eight, he managed to convince his mother to send him to real piano lessons, with a real teacher, so he could develop the technique and style to go with his natural ability and sharp ear. Mrs. Benedict taught him minuets and concertos, corrected his hand position, and held a ruler against his back so he’d sit up straight as he played. Shawn was always given the grand finale slot in her student recitals and he was grateful for her expertise and interest. But his loyalty to Mrs. Benedict stopped just short of fulfilling her dream for him. 

Shawn couldn’t join a conservatory and become the classical pianist she wanted him to be. He loves popular music too much.

He spent a good deal of his late teens and early twenties playing standards and classic rock n’ roll in any bar or restaurant that would hire him and even scored a couple of gigs as a session musician for some local San Francisco recording artists. But around his six hundredth smokey performance of “She’s Always a Woman” accompanied by melancholy and usually over-served patrons, Shawn realized that, though he was still young, he wasn’t getting any less so, and it was time to make a mark with his own music.

His recording studio experience got him this meeting with Brendan Clark, a savvy producer known for his ability to spot talent and kickstart careers. But Shawn knew it was a bust when he launched into his second, admittedly tedious ballad and Mr. Clark’s eyes glazed over before darting up to the clock on his wall. He had chops, the man said when Shawn forced himself to finish the song. But he wasn’t playing anything for him that he could sell.

Putting one of who knows how many unsolicited submissions into his hands was obviously Mr. Clark’s semi-polite way of booting Shawn from his office. For the rest of his life, Shawn would get goosebumps whenever he thought of the pure, dumb luck of it all.

Outside on the sidewalk, he pinches the metal tangs together and opens the flap. The envelope’s contents are about ten sheets of paper, each bearing typewritten lyrics, plus the writer’s resume. 

Shawn scans the lyrics first, since those mean more to him than anyone’s qualifications. 

There’s no accompanying commentary or musical specifications on the first sheet. The lyrics are presented like a poem, just words organized into neat stanzas – no recommendations for instrumentation, brand of artist, or even genre. Shawn hasn’t made it to the end of the first verse before he can hear the song in his head, as clear as anything. Not wanting to lose it, he reads and rereads that set of lyrics on the bus ride home, occasionally humming or singing a phrase, which makes the elderly woman sitting across from him smile. 

When he gets to his house, he makes a beeline for the piano his mother insisted he take when he got his own place and sits down, still wearing his denim jacket. He places the lyrics on the music stand, checks that there’s a new cassette in his tape deck, and pushes both the Play and Record buttons down.

Then Shawn stretches his fingers, empties his mind, and plays “Too Much to Ask” – the only way he knows how.

*****

The writer isn’t what Shawn expected after ending up with a sheaf of regret and heartbreak so palpable that he stayed up most of the first night composing, hesitant to put the inspiration down.

The man who slides into the booth across from him has a carefree grin and radiates casually suave energy, like he’s never missed an opportunity to win someone over. 

No need to make the extra effort today. Shawn likes him instantly.

“I think I’ve seen you play,” Niall Horan says, in way of greeting, “at Nan’s. Thursday nights, right?”

“Right.”

“You’re good.” He slides off his knockoff Ray-Bans and sets them on the formica table, revealing Carolina blue eyes. Shawn ducks his head at the compliment.

“Thanks, man.”

They order coffee and three-egg omelettes from a bored but conscientious waitress, and Shawn tries to guess at the origin of Niall’s almost Midwestern accent. 

“So, you liked the songs?” the lyricist asks when the waitress walks away with their laminated menus. “To be honest, I didn’t think I’d ever hear anything about them ever again. That’s how it goes with most of these mail submissions. You put your heart and soul into something, and then it’s like it never happened.”

Shawn wants to tell him how instantly familiar his words felt, as though putting them to music were like reuniting twins separated at birth. But that feels like a lot to lay on a stranger at nine in the morning.

“They’re really beautiful,” he says instead. “Sad, but not depressing. You convey pain, but there’s hope in there, too. I don’t know what you were envisioning, but I have ideas.”

“I’m just a words man, Mr. Mendes,” Niall says without self-judgment, pouring sugar into his coffee. “I know what I like, but I mostly leave the music up to the musicians.”

“Don’t you play anything? Your lyrics are so...lyrical.” Shawn holds back a wince at the obvious observation.

“Badly. Never had the patience for it. I sing a little, but I come from a literary background. Turns out there aren’t a lot of paying jobs for a guy with a poetry degree, so I thought I’d try this. People have said my poems sound like songs, so…” Niall shrugs, then takes a sip from his mug.

“They do to me, that’s for sure.”

Taking advantage of their still uncluttered table, Shawn reaches into his shoulder bag and pulls out his tape deck and a pair of headphones.

“I only recorded ‘Too Much to Ask,’ but if you like it, I’m happy to play you the rest.”

“The rest?” Niall accepts the proffered headphones, a line forming between his eyebrows. “How many of these did you write music for?”

“Oh.” Shawn’s cheeks warm. “All of them?”

“You are shitting me.” Niall’s smile is equal parts amused and flattered.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Shawn warns. “You haven’t heard my work.”

As Niall places the headphones over his ears and presses play, Shawn sucks in a quiet breath and realizes that he’s even more nervous now than he was auditioning for Mr. Clark. It’s Niall’s art that he’s interpreted, and suddenly, it’s essential he likes it.

He tries not to stare at Niall’s face while he listens to the song, but his curiosity won’t let him look away – anyway, it would be even weirder to try and avoid it. 

He doesn’t know Niall or how to read him, but Shawn is certain that he cycles through several emotions in the ensuing few minutes. One moment he’s glaring down at the placemat in front of him, jaw tight, the next, he’s locking eyes with Shawn across the table, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

Shawn smiles back, heart in his throat, and the next sixty seconds may as well be an eternity.

At long last, Niall stops the tape, removes the headphones, and runs a hand through his thick, brown hair, fluffing it up again.

“When can I hear the rest of our album?”

*****

With Niall in his life, the days get shorter.

That first morning, they stay at the diner for two hours, until the wait staff has a shift change. Niall tells Shawn about growing up in Ohio and being one of four guys in his predominantly female major. Shawn tells him about turning down a career in classical music and starting to play for money at thirteen, when his mother would take him to the Italian restaurant down the street and sit at the bar nursing a single glass of white wine while he entertained the happy hour crowd. But the majority of their conversation is spent talking about bands and songs and singers that they love, comparing notes on the best (and most disastrous) gigs they’ve ever been to, and – to the irritation of the tables around them – harmonizing on some of their favorite tunes. 

(Niall does have a nice voice – a warm and wild tenor.)

When they finally pay their bill (and tip as handsomely as they can afford to), Niall walks with Shawn back to his building, climbing the creaky stairs up to his top-floor apartment – the stairs that Shawn had been sure would collapse out from under him and his cousin when they were moving in his mother’s piano.

Shawn sits down at it – the instrument that taught him that he could teach himself – and plays the music he wrote for Niall’s other lyrics. He invites him to sit in his battered armchair, and Niall does, but seems too restless and eager to stay there. By the second song, he’s standing next to Shawn, his hand resting on the top of the piano as he watches his fingers dance over the keys. When second and third choruses come around, Niall softly sings along, as though he’s testing out an idea. 

His compliments are appreciated, but none affect Shawn as much as the sunny, slightly bewildered smile that rarely leaves his face.

Anyhow, he’s never had a collaborator before. First he copied songs from the radio, then he learned how to properly play the work of long-dead composers, and now he does what he’s told in the studio, where he’s there to fulfill someone else’s artistic vision. But it’s evident that Niall thinks of these pieces as “their” songs, not just his, and they spend the rest of the afternoon batting around ideas, tweaking lines and musical phrases. It’s as creatively stimulated (and free) as Shawn’s ever felt, and he loses track of how long they’ve been at it. Only a cavernous growl from Niall’s stomach jolts them into self-conscious laughter.

When it dies down, they order a pizza.

Sleep is slow to come that night, too, Shawn’s mind still racing with music and the potential of this partnership – an unexpected artistic chemistry that just fell out of the sky. But as exhaustion overtakes him, the thoughts change. Then, it’s the shape of Niall’s back as jogs off of his stoop and the infectious tone of his laughter – an immodest cackle that throws his head backwards. It’s wondering about the person he’s holding out a “flicker of hope” for, and what convinced him that they were living in a paper house.

Looking back on it later, the speed with which Niall became the most important person in his life doesn’t surprise Shawn.

He’d started falling in love with him the moment he read his lyrics.

That truth is still in the periphery of his understanding when they start to meet a few times a week to work. Sometimes, Niall shows up at Shawn’s place after a shift at the library, backpack slung over his shoulder and a few new stanzas jotted down in pencil in the notebook he carries everywhere. When they need a change of scenery and fresh inspiration, they hit the diner or one of Niall’s favorite dives, where they pump quarters into the jukebox and drink watery pilsners.

Shawn schools his expression into bland attention when Niall does open up about his ex – a creative writing student who broke his heart. She’d come to him one day saying that they’d grown apart, which was apparently news to him. If she’d met somebody else or they disagreed on some deal-breaking issue, Niall says, he wouldn’t have gotten half the amount of songs out of their split. But Hailee had left him with something to unpack and closure to seek, which is why he hasn’t started dating again yet, despite the “nice girls” who’ve been slipping their numbers into their returns at the library.

His story seems to confirm what Shawn had suspected about Niall, but that’s not the only reason he’s frozen in what has to be an unconvincing half-smile. Breakup stories are usually reciprocated, especially amongst friends. And though nothing about Niall suggests that he’d have any problem with Shawn being gay, Shawn isn’t ready to reveal it. Their friendship is too new – what they’re doing together is too important. So he nods and listens and asks questions, and Niall doesn’t appear to notice (or care) that Shawn isn’t sharing too.

*****

On one of their bar nights, Niall slides two folded sheets of torn notebook paper over to Shawn’s side of the table.

When Shawn starts to open them up, Niall stops him with his hand.

“For later,” he says. “If you read it now, you’ll start composing in your head, and I’d rather not talk shop tonight, if it’s all the same to you.”

It is. That Niall wants to write with him exclusively and that he kept their plans even though he wasn’t in the mood to work take up equal space inside Shawn.

And he’s right. Niall has yet to hand over anything that hasn’t given him an immediate idea. There isn’t anything he hasn’t heard in his head as distinctly and complete as the scales that were drilled into him as a kid. So the song burns hot in the pocket of his jeans on his walk, without Niall’s two-day stubble or animated personality to distract him. 

He talks himself out of trying to decipher it as his legs carry him home and again, in the warm, spare light of his kitchen. He’s had too many beers to properly take it in.

They always seemed to do that though: linger a little too long, stay out a little too late. Niall’s joked that their first big hit will be called “Just One More Round (I Have to Get Up Early).”

So the pages stay in Shawn's jeans when he folds them over the chair next to his bed and falls into a deep, boozy sleep.

It lasts until the late morning, since Shawn isn’t booked for any sessions and doesn’t have anywhere else in the world to be.

The sun is high in the sky and throwing sharp, geometric shapes across his bed when he blinks slowly awake. Even so, he hovers in the twilight a little, shaking off the disorientation of sleeping for ten hours straight. After he slowly slots into place what day it is, what his plans entail, and that he did replenish his supply of coffee grounds the day before, Shawn’s next thought is of the song. 

The shimmering anticipation of having something new to work on propels him to stretch across the mattress, succeeding in pinching the material between his fingers and dragging the pants over to him without having to get up. Shawn shoves his hand into the right pocket and retrieves the papers, then unfolds them, blinking a few more times to focus his blurry morning vision.

The rhythm is already there in Niall’s verses and chorus. Shawn’s subconscious provides the notes. He smiles to himself as he reads back over the song again, cementing the melody in his brain and tapping it out on the sheets with his fingers.

It’s not going anywhere, so Shawn takes a long, hot shower – an attempt to steam his hangover into submission. (For all the rest of the annoyances and indignities of this apartment, it has surprisingly luxurious water pressure.) Figuring that he slept through breakfast, he makes himself a sandwich with the cold cuts in his refrigerator and eats it with his coffee. He even watches TV for a little while, so sure is he that the tune won’t flit away from him if he doesn’t commit it to something soon. When he gets a hold of anything Niall’s written, it’s like it uncovers something he was always aware of. And once it rises to the surface, it sticks.

Of course, he does move over to the piano eventually, flattening the handwritten sheets next to each other on the stand.

He tests out a few versions of the opening chord, knowing instantly when he’s got it right. The intro, he wants to play with – he’s not sure yet exactly how many bars it should be. He wants Niall’s opinion on it too. So he fiddles around, assessing his options, before launching into the first verse. 

He knows it's Niall at the door because he always knocks loud enough to be heard over whatever Shawn is playing or listening to.

“It’s open!” Shawn calls between lines, not wanting to disrupt his flow.

He keeps playing and singing, assuming that Niall will head to the kitchen to get himself a drink or a snack, as he usually does.

 _'Cause we're two kids_ _  
_ _Trying to start a fight_ _  
_ _No matter where we go_ _  
_ _Yeah, we'll be alright_

But his footsteps don’t reach the refrigerator. In fact, Shawn feels his presence, right in the doorway to his cramped living room. 

Without stopping, he lifts his head and looks at him. 

_All I'm asking for_ _  
_ _A bit of patience, please_ _  
_ _'Cause I know what's to come_ _  
_ _And it's coming for you and me_

Niall is leaning his shoulder against the door frame, his messenger bag still on his hips and jacket on underneath that. And his expression isn’t a familiar one.

Shawn quickly learned that he wears his heart on his sleeve and on his face – he hasn’t ever held back from showing Shawn that he was happy with a chord progression or that a certain line about Hailee hit him particularly hard on a certain day. 

But right now, Shawn's not entirely clear on what’s happening, except that he’s reasonably sure that it’s good. Niall’s mouth is slack, but his eyes are soft and a little astounded. So he keeps going, lifting his voice for the chorus.

 _Time’s never been on our side_ _  
_ _So would you wait for me?_ _  
_ _I lead a selfish life_ _  
_ _'Cause that's what I need_

He shifts his attention back to Niall from the lyrics, and Niall bites down on a pleased smile.

 _What do I have to do_ _  
_ _To make you believe?_ _  
_ _It's all for you and me_

It’s not that Shawn doesn’t pay attention to the content of the lyrics, but his first response is usually mechanical. He hears their poetry; he plots how they’ll flow into each other – and only then is there room to wonder what he’s singing about.

The rest of Niall’s songs are post-mortem investigations. Not without optimism, but autopsies all the same. This is the only one, Shawn realizes as Niall watches him do it, that’s solidly about the future.

And it seems like Niall doesn't see himself alone in it.

By the second chorus, he’s thinking it might not be so crazy to hope that he might be somewhere in this lyric. Not in the way he’s increasingly aware that he’d like to be, but being Niall’s friend – his colleague – is so much better than nothing. What they’ve stumbled into _is_ special, and despite those feelings Shawn needs to get over, Niall recognizes it too. 

He can feel it at this moment, passing between them. Whether this song is about them or not doesn’t really matter. Shawn won’t ever forget playing it for the first time or how Niall was looking at him when he did.

 _When I look down the line_ _  
_ _At the man I wanna be_ _  
_ _I've always known from the start_ _  
_ _That it ends with you and me._

He can’t help himself. He steadies his gaze and sings the last line right to his best friend.

It’s the first time that he’s ever seen Niall look shy, and though he’s all in for this ride, Shawn doesn’t know anymore if he can survive it.

*****

The first day they hear “Too Much to Ask” on the radio should be the best of Shawn’s life so far. And it is, for most of it.

Clark had given them the heads up that the single had been sent out to local radio stations, just to test the waters. From the minute he got home from that meeting, Shawn’s radio was on for every hour he was awake. Live 105 played it three days later, in the four o’clock hour – well before drive time, but not in the dead of night – a triumph, as far as he was concerned. He called Niall at work, and his response was to let out a whoop that was decidedly not library-friendly.

Coincidentally, the producer had also booked them a gig for that very same evening. Sure, Shawn had thrown the occasional Mendes/Horan original into his bar gigs, that was just to see how it sounded in a venue other than his apartment. Those crowds were there for songs they could sing along to – not an accurate test audience for new music. 

But this job – opening for a fairly popular local band at an establishment that was known more for its live music than its chicken parmigiana – would give them more feedback that they could actually use.

Clark wasn’t interested in footing the bill for a backing band, not just yet, so it was up to Shawn and an unfamiliar piano alone to warm up the crowd. 

Niall set up in the balcony after wishing him luck in the venue’s cramped backstage area. Shawn was still, in a sense, flying high after the ecstatic shock of having their music heard across San Francisco, but as soon as Niall left him to take the stage, the nerves set in.

It doesn’t matter that he’s performed in hundreds of recitals or has had warm beer sloshed on him when he didn’t take a request fast enough. 

All of that was just about ability, which he knows by now that he has. This – tonight – is about revealing something that means so much to both of them and seeing whether it resonates or not in real time. 

Mostly, he just doesn’t want to let Niall down.

Shawn lifts his gaze upward and locks eyes with him as he makes his way to the piano after his introduction. Niall nods, like he has every confidence in him and is still shitting bricks, and then Shawn positions his hands on the keys.

Twenty minutes later, and Shawn barely remembers it. The entire set – all three songs of it – hurtle by in a blur, and the next thing he knows, Niall has his arms around him backstage. Clark isn’t there, but his assistant is, and he pledges to tell his boss how well it had all gone first thing the next morning.

But Shawn struggles to process that news, because there’s a willowy blonde standing at Niall’s side, listening in on the conversation as though she’s part of the team. 

He must flick his eyes over to her one too many times, because eventually, Niall introduces them.

“Shawn, this is Harmony!” he shouts over the headliner’s first guitar-driven song. “Her parents were hippies, isn’t that wild?”

“Yeah,” Shawn says flatly, observing how her pout doesn’t slip at all as he shakes her hand. “That’s crazy.” 

When it becomes evident that Harmony plans on joining them for their celebratory drinks, Shawn resists the sudden, overwhelming urge to just beg off and head home.

Niall doesn’t deserve that. This is his night as much as it is Shawn’s, and if he wants a wannabe flower child who was born two decades too late for the free love movement to hang all over him for the duration of it, that’s his business. 

It’s an unkind thought, but Shawn clings to it.

This is what they’ve been working towards, what they’ve spent hours fantasizing about. Shawn was so focused on getting to this point – being on a real stage singing _their_ songs – that he hadn’t thought to prepare himself for their bubble being invaded. 

Harmony wasn’t up with them at Shawn’s kitchen table at three am, adamant that they nail down the bridge before allowing themselves to close their eyes. She didn’t put in any of the half dozen calls they traded off making to Clark’s office, trying to find a slot in his schedule. So why should she get to be here now, rubbing Niall’s back and whispering in his ear while they stand at the bar?

Well, what does he expect? That Niall is going to send a very pretty and blatantly interested girl on her way just so he can hang out with Shawn, who he already sees almost every day?

Maybe, Shawn realizes as he tightens his grip around the neck of his beer. Maybe he does. Or he did. Or he’d let himself get too comfortable in the delusion that it would always just be the two of them. Meanwhile, he’s looking at exactly why ninety percent of the guys he knows in the local scene want to be famous musicians in the first place: a blonde on their arm telling them how brilliant they are.

How did he not see this coming?

Distantly, it occurs to Shawn that he should be playing the part. He’s noticed them, the group of women pointedly lurking over his shoulder, cocking their hips and occasionally looking his way. But he doesn’t have it in him to learn their names or make them laugh or put their drink orders in with the bartender.

Harmony’s started to shoot lazy daggers at him with her eyes when Niall isn’t looking, but Shawn well and truly doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

So Niall chats away happily to both of them, either not picking up on the tension between Shawn and Harmony or pretending that he isn’t. He never gives Shawn a “get lost” hint or tries to lead Harmony away. But his thumb is hooked into one of her belt loops – to Shawn, the writing on the wall.

He doesn’t want to risk seeing any pity in Niall’s eyes when he finally takes her home, so Shawn decides to make his exit first. 

“Aw, you serious?” Niall says, sounding sincere. “One more drink, on me. We’re celebrating.”

“Nah, thanks though. I think all that adrenaline...I’m coming down now. I’m gonna be dead on my feet in a minute.”

“You okay to get home?”

Harmony’s forehead twitches as she stares Shawn down.

“No, yeah, I’m fine,” Shawn lies. “Just exhausted. You guys stay, have a good time.”

He turns towards the door, but is quickly brought back by Niall’s “hey.”

He looks back to find him standing up straight, arms spread wide.

Shawn steps into the hug.

It’s a real one – there are no self-conscious back taps, Niall doesn’t pull away just as quickly. 

He holds Shawn to him for a solid few seconds, his chin hooking over his shoulder by virtue of their height difference. Shawn doesn’t mean to smell his hair, but it’s right there: Cedar, peppermint, and a hint of cigarette smoke. He recognizes the first two scents from his apartment, where they’ll linger together on the throw pillows on his couch or a sweater accidentally left behind.

Niall squeezes him once and then lets him go, murmuring another congratulations on the show.

On his way home, Shawn tells himself to stop being so ridiculous. He’s not _losing_ Niall. That could never happen. And certainly not like this.

When he sees him again two days later, it’s only for a minute. Niall stops at his house to drop off a new song he’s titled “Black and White.” 

Shawn wants to hate it, but they both know it’s the best work he’s ever done.

*****

Seemingly overnight, Shawn and Niall have a career – and it’s moving fast. 

Clark rushes them into the studio again to record an EP. It’s a bigger production than when they put down “Too Much to Ask,” with more musicians in the room and techs in the booth. They take Shawn’s photo for the cover art, but it’s a struggle to look contemplative and deep with Niall pulling faces at him over the photographer’s shoulder.

Then it’s more gigs. Still short sets, but now with a small backing band, hand-selected by the producer. They’re more experienced and older, and even after playing a handful of shows with them, Shawn has no sense of whether or not they even like the music. But they’re professional, skilled, and never late for a soundcheck, and that’s just about all he can ask for.

Though Ryan, Terry, and Rodney have made it abundantly (though politely) clear that this is just a job for them, they’ll occasionally stick around for a post-show drink. The night that everything changes, the five of them escape to a quiet pub nearby when the act at the top of the bill takes the stage.

Almost as soon as they sit down, the topic turns to women. Ryan has a wife and children, Terry is divorced with one, and Rodney has never been married. It’s a different kind of industry when you’re coming home to a family, the first two agree. Shawn gets the sense that Ryan and his wife have some kind of agreement about how many nights a week he’s allowed to stay out for a nightcap.

“Makes me wonder why the two of you are out here with us old men,” the bassist grins, putting his glass to his lips. “You should be waking up in a different bed every morning. I love my family, but shit – if I said I didn’t still dream about those good old days, I’d be lyin to you. And it won’t last forever. You’ve got to sow your oats now, while your stock is high. You’re good-looking kids, but even if you weren’t, you’d still be fighting them off. It’s something about being on that stage. Hell, even Terry and his ugly mug get a tumble now and again.”

“You shut your fool mouth,” Terry warns, with a twinkle in his eye.

“And Niall, you work the artistic genius angle,” Ryan continues. “Shawn may be up there singing, but you wrote the words that make those girls go crazy. Don’t let them forget it.”

“No, sir,” Niall says seriously, then shoots Shawn an amused smile.

“You’re presuming a lot of things,” Terry interjects smoothly. “Maybe these boys already have a girl. And unlike you, they don’t think it’s their god-given right to run around on them.”

“Well, good for them, then.” Ryan says, emphasizing each word. He turns to Niall and Shawn. “They pretty?”

Shawn tenses up. It’s been weeks since he composed the music for “Black and White” in one marathon session, pushing himself through to the end to keep from walking away from it entirely. He hasn’t seen Harmony since the night they all met, nor has Niall mentioned her. But he’s also been acting differently around him lately, though it’s such a subtle shift, Shawn’s sure he’s the only one who would ever notice.

He’s quieter, to start. And distracted – there have been times where Shawn’s had to say his name twice or three times to drag him out of his head and back into the room. Every time, Niall bounces right back, slipping into his regular, genial self, as if Shawn just imagined the blip.

So while it’s been nice to pretend that Harmony isn’t still in his life, Shawn is pretty sure that Niall has kept seeing her – he’s just been keeping the two of them apart. 

It’s his fault. Certainly Niall had been kind about it, but the way Shawn acted at that first gig must have freaked him out. Surely, he was supposed to be helping his best friend get laid, not hovering around whenever he hit it off with someone. And Harmony clearly wasn’t having it, so he can only guess at what she may have said to Niall about him later.

Your weird friend. Your creepy friend. Your clingy friend.

No wonder Niall hasn’t told him.

Shawn takes a pull of his beer to buy himself some time.

“Well,” Ryan prompts, eyeballing Niall now. “Who’s the lucky lady?” 

The beer goes rancid on Shawn’s palate.

“None so lucky here, fellas,” Niall says with a rueful edge. “As much as I hate to disappoint you.”

He flicks his eyes over to Shawn again.

“I’m not surprised,” Terry loosening his tie. “Sounds like the last one did a number on you.”

“That she did, Terry. That she did.”

“Alright, so what about our frontman?” Ryan pushes. “You’ve got that David Cassidy thing happening. The ladies must be knocking down your door.”

“Talk about presumption,” Rodney speaks up again before Shawn can give his canned answer. “It’s not the ladies he’s looking for.”

Underneath his shock, Shawn is actually jealous of the authority and nonchalance with which he says it. But only the first part must show on his face. 

“You are one uncouth son of a bitch, you know that?” Terry chastises, shaking his head.

Shawn’s heart pounds against his ribs and he feels like he’s free falling, but it’s exhilaration causing those reactions, not despair.

He may not share everything, but he’s always drawn the line at lying. And he’s known, deep down, that refusing to pretend would invite questions. He had been courting them, actually – on some level, longing to be perceived.

By some people more than others.

“I’m very sorry if I misspoke, but I thought I heard–”

“No, you’re right,” Shawn interrupts. His voice doesn’t shake. “That’s right. I’m a queer.”

Terry shrugs.

“Is that a problem for anyone?” Shawn asks, looking around at the band.

“We hang around with this old queen, don’t we?” Ryan scoffs, pointing at Rodney with his glass.

As the three of them laugh, utterly unbothered, Shawn’s gaze finally lands on Niall. 

“Is it a problem for you?” he says, a little quieter.

Niall stares at him for a good, long moment.

“No,” he says, just as steady. “Not for me.”

The mood lifts after that – the old-timers and the green artists bonded by the conversation. Shawn laughs as the former group rib each other as only the oldest friends are allowed to do and doesn’t fail to appreciate that he and Niall seem to have earned their approval – that they don’t just see them as two clueless kids who happen to be their bosses. But letting go of the weight that he’s been carrying for so long also serves to send Shawn back into himself.

The other patrons, the table he’s leaning on, and even the people he’s drinking with sit behind a veil as Shawn tries to run the calculus on how, with one sentence, he stepped into a new life.

When Rodney scooches out to order them another round of drinks, the rest of them reshuffle. Then Niall’s thigh is touching his under the table, and just like that, he’s with Shawn on his side of the veil.

It’s barely a gesture – they’re packed into a table for four, so it’s not as though he has much choice in the matter, but Niall can’t possibly know what it means to Shawn that he doesn’t shift away from the contact.

Everything else is amorphous – hazy and fluid, endeavoring to settle. But the light pressure of Niall’s body against his is grounding, keeping Shawn from dissociating from the moment completely. He takes care to keep his own leg absolutely still, terrified of waking Niall up to what he’s doing. If he were to pull away, Shawn couldn’t take it. His throat thickens at the mere thought.

It’s the same reason he doesn’t ask what happened with Harmony, though the look Niall gave him earlier did seem to confirm that she really wasn’t in the picture anymore. He wasn’t just saying that so the other guys would move on. 

In addition to their beers, Rodney comes back with five shots of Irish whiskey, eliciting a delighted groan from the rest of the band. The back of Shawn’s hand bumps into Niall’s fingers as they come together in one messy cheers, and the whiskey burns as it slides down his throat, mellowing into a campfire warmth when it hits his belly.

To no one’s surprise, Ryan calls it first. And though his friends razz him for being whipped (“See, T, that’s what I’m still married. I actually _like_ my wife.”), Rodney and Terry follow his lead. 

Alone, Niall and Shawn walk to what Shawn considers “their” corner – the place where their paths home literally diverge – mostly in silence. He can’t work out what kind of silence it is, however, except that Niall doesn’t appear to be upset or afraid of him. Shawn thinks he can help by answering the questions Niall perhaps isn’t sure how to ask, but he doesn’t know what they are. Everything he tries out in his head makes it sound like he’s rationalizing his own existence.

Glancing at Niall – his lips pressed into a line and his hands in his pockets – Shawn wonders if they’re disinclined to speak for the same reason: They’re being cautious.

Not fearful, not distrusting – just cautious.

Niall senses Shawn looking at him, and his lips tug into a half smile. 

“You good?” he asks.

“You know, I actually am.”

“Okay, because those guys…” His eyes flash, paler under the streetlights. “It wasn’t cool.”

“I’m fine. Really. It was time.”

Niall nods, satisfied.

Another stretch of silence, as they come up on the end of the sidewalk they share. But when Niall speaks again, it’s not to tell Shawn that he’ll see him tomorrow.

“Hey, do you mind if I swing by your place? Left my notebook there, and I think I’m going to want to do some writing in the morning.”

“Okay, sure."

So they both turn down the stretch Shawn usually walks alone, their footsteps on the pavement almost synchronized.

It’s strange to have Niall walking beside him here so late at night, when all the porch lights are extinguished and only a car or two creeps by. He normally only crashes when they’re on a late-night writing jag or getting drunk in Shawn’s apartment to save a little money. His place is close enough that they both stumble home separately after a gig or the bar, and Shawn usually spends these final few minutes on his own with the stars, willing his heart to take it easy.

Niall stands just to his left as Shawn unlocks the front door with his key. He’s about to ask him where he left his notebook so he can run it out to him, but Niall is already following close behind him into the foyer. After being out in the night air, the sleepiness of the whiskey is gone, leaving Shawn alert and aware – aware of the steps creaking with their weight, aware of Niall breathing behind him.

Inside the apartment, Shawn shuts the door behind them, leaving the deadbolt untouched. He peels off his jacket, hanging it on the hook near the doorframe. Niall doesn’t need permission to go rooting around in Shawn’s couch cushions or crawling under the piano.

But when he turns, Niall is still standing in the hallway, arms heavy at his sides.

The change in him isn’t entirely new; it’s whatever Shawn had been registering over the last few weeks, only dialed up to eleven. 

“Uh...water?” he offers, because he doesn’t have the guts to ask Niall what’s wrong.

“Yeah,” Niall exhales, his forehead relaxing. “Thanks.”

Shawn doesn’t flip on any lights, scared that Niall will blink out of his apartment if he does. Fortunately, there’s enough moonlight coming through the windows to keep them from banging into the walls.

Listening to the hum of the refrigerator, he imagines that he and Niall are floating through space in a capsule, falling into Earth’s atmosphere like a finger being dipped into whipped cream. Distant, but still home.

He opens the refrigerator door, but something about the shape of Niall’s mouth in the anemic light makes him immediately close it again. When Niall has nothing to say about it, Shawn finally understands.

So he steps into his space, tilts his head up with his fingertips, and kisses him.

Niall’s hands clamp onto his forearms, and Shawn's heart lurches, sure he’s made a fatal miscalculation that will send everything up in flames. But Niall’s grip softens once he’s steadied himself, and – even better – he’s kissing Shawn back.

If he’d felt lucky before, Shawn’s sure now that no one’s ever been luckier than him – that he’s maybe used up all the luck in the world, leaving everyone else to get by without magic. That’s the only explanation for Niall opening his mouth to him as Shawn frames his face and changes the angle, Niall's slight beard soft under his palms. 

The kiss getting harder and more urgent by the second, Shawn backs him up into the wall, and a little grunt escapes when Niall’s shoulders hit it. Their lips separate for an instant, and Shawn can’t see it, but he can _feel_ Niall smiling – wickedly, as he sometimes does. Just the memory of that canine smile – the idea that he inspired it, and like this – makes his dick get harder.

He’s been out with guys who’ve seemed legitimately into it until things got physical. As soon as sex was a possibility, they didn’t want to kiss or touch or do anything intimate – just get off as cleanly and efficiently as possible, so that they could keep on telling themselves the same story.

But Niall’s hands are curious and hungry, sliding around Shawn’s sides, up his back, and finally down to his ass, pulling him in closer. He arches his back so they're pressed together from chest to hips – Shawn has never touched so much of him at once, but it's still not enough.

Drunk again, he yanks the collar of his jacket roughly aside and mouths at Niall’s throat, breathing in that scent he knows so well and tucking away every gasp and whine for later. He noses over his collarbone to do the same to the other side of his neck, pausing a moment to appreciate the surprisingly thick thatch of chest hair that's on display every time Niall neglects to fully button up his shirts, daring Shawn not to fixate on it.

They should talk about this. They should. 

Not only as friends, but as business partners. Any sane person would tell them to set ground rules – establish their boundaries.

But slotting his knee between Niall’s always tempting thighs feels even better in reality than it did in Shawn’s daydreams, where every writing session would turn into them rolling around together on the floor together with pieces of paper clinging to their backs. And though Shawn would stop immediately if Niall asked him to, he’s certainly not going to be the one to talk him out of this.

Besides, Niall is thick in his jeans, which Shawn learns when he instinctively starts to move his hips forward and back, dragging himself against Shawn’s leg. But his movements are small and restrained, and when Shawn lifts his head to look at his face, Niall has his eyes screwed shut and his bruised bottom lip trapped between his teeth.

He can’t help but smile, his heart tender both because of who he’s looking at and because he’s familiar with what he’s feeling.

“C’mon baby,” Shawn says lowly into his ear. “Just let go.”

Before Niall can respond, Shawn licks into his mouth again, like he can take away whatever inhibitions are holding him back. A ritual.

All he evidently needed was to give himself permission. Niall’s fingertips dig into Shawn’s shoulder blades, finding purchase, and he ruts against him with intention, panting hard and wet against Shawn’s neck. 

Next time, he’ll take him to bed, Shawn thinks. They’ll tell everyone they’re going out of town, close the curtains, and spend days learning each other. But there’s no way they’re making it that far tonight. 

Anyway, he’s already fantasized about fucking Niall in every room of this house. He doesn’t much care which comes first.

So he reaches in between them and pops the button on Niall’s Levi's, hovering his hand there and pushing Niall’s chest away so he can see his face when he gives him his out.

“If anything isn’t okay…”

Niall nods jaggedly. The blue is transformed again – this time, stormy and looming.

“I wanna make you feel good,” Shawn says, lowering Niall’s zipper and crawling his hand into his pants. Niall swallows, eyes fluttering shut as Shawn palms his cock through his underwear. 

“So good…” Shawn breathes. He kisses Niall’s mouth once more – sweetly – then lowers himself to his knees.

Niall’s eyes fly open when he senses it. 

“Oh, fuck.” 

He shucks himself out of his jacket, as quick as a horny jock in a teen movie. Shawn doesn’t know whether to laugh or keep him forever.

He runs his hands up and down the fronts of Niall’s thighs a few times, savoring the way Niall is staring down at him, awed, fucked out, and oddly patient. After the last, he gets a hold of his waistband and tugs everything down at once. Shawn palms himself once for a little relief, then licks the inside of his hand and wraps his fingers around Niall’s thick, velvety length.

His muscles are already quivering, and Shawn has barely touched him. He doesn’t know how to tell him not to be embarrassed, that his responsiveness is incredibly sexy…

But he can show him.

He pumps his dick once, twice, then holds it steady in front of his face. The sound that comes from the back of Niall's throat whenever Shawn takes the tip in his mouth and swirls his tongue around the head goes off like a bomb in his silent kitchen.

Flattening his free hand against Niall's belly, another part of his body that's been on top of his list to touch, Shawn takes the rest of him down without another warning. Niall’s fingers are tangled in his hair, his ass and leg muscles clenched tight.

Everywhere but on stage, Niall is the loud one, and Shawn’s thrilled that it’s no different in this situation. He curses and praises him and even talks to god as Shawn works him over, pulling out every trick he knows. If this indeed is Niall’s first blow job from a guy, Shawn is determined that it also be the best one of his life. 

He feels Niall’s ab muscles seize against his hand, and almost simultaneously, his hands tighten in his curls. 

He babbles that he’s coming, or the words may be out of order. Either way, Shawn gets the message, but stays there, hollowing his cheeks and swallowing around him until Niall lets go again, coming hard against the back of his throat and calling his name.

When Niall falls back against the wall, Shawn scrambles up to his feet, catching his boneless weight so he doesn’t slide down to the floor. Niall leans into him, wrapping his arms around Shawn in a hug, which would be wholesome and not too out of the ordinary if he weren’t naked from the waist down.

“What was I waiting for?” Niall says breathlessly and blissed out. And then again: “What was I waiting for?”

 _How long_ , Shawn wants to ask. _As long as me?_

And then, he wonders whether he’ll ever get to see what Niall writes about this.

“Let’s go sit down,” he says.

Niall pulls up his briefs but kicks off his jeans. Suddenly, it’s much more likely that Shawn will get to fall asleep with him – not just sprawled on different chairs or with Shawn in his bed and Niall on the couch. He’ll be right there with the warm mass of him, coming together like those interlocking puzzle games – figuring out where the pieces go.

Shawn walks him into the living room, fully expecting for Niall to fade as soon as he hits the cushions. But Niall grasps his fingers and yanks him down with a “c’mere,” initiating a messy kiss and secreting his hands inside Shawn’s shirt, pushing it up until Shawn pulls it over his head and tosses it to the floor.

Crawling on top of him, Niall gets Shawn as horizontal as he can, the pads of his fingers skating down over the swell of his chest, the concave curve of his stomach. Shawn’s already undone his own fly to release some of the pressure, and Niall goes for it faster than he would have expected, pulling Shawn’s cock out and tugging on it roughly.

The rhythm's uneven and neither of them are comfortably positioned, but Niall’s hand is on his dick, and Shawn’s been close since his mouth started watering for Niall’s.

 _“Ow._ Ow, ow.”

Shawn opens his eyes to Niall frozen and gritting his teeth in pain.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, hearing his voice go higher with alarm. “Are you okay?”

Niall flops around a little bit, trying to unearth his one leg from where it’s caught between Shawn’s body and the back of the couch.

“Cramp, gotta cramp. Jesus fucking christ, that hurts.”

Shawn slides off the couch onto the floor to give him room, then reaches out to him helplessly.

“Can I...do anything?” 

Niall twists himself into a seated position and pounds on a quadricep with his fists.

“You can, actually,” he says once the cramp’s subsided, sounding put out.

Shawn raises his eyebrows.

“Do you really have to be so... _big?_ You can’t even fit on your own couch. It’s absurd." 

Shawn can’t stop himself, he snorts. It’s about as irritated as he’s even seen him, though the fact that he’s visibly half-hard again suggests that this isn’t a serious conflict.

Shawn stands on his knees and runs a hand over himself, watching Niall’s face change as he does.

“Is it a problem for you?”

Niall pounces, and suddenly Shawn's lying flat on his back on the carpet with Niall above him. He attaches his lips to Shawn's neck, teeth scraping lightly against the sensitive skin, slaps his hand out of the way, and picks up the pace. Seconds later, Shawn comes into his fist, Niall swallowing his broken groan with a kiss.

At some point, each of them both peel themselves off of the floor to go and wash up. But leaving that spot for any other reason seems unnecessary. Niall pulls the throw pillows down to them from the couch, and they use the insufficient blanket to cover up as much of themselves as possible.

They should talk, Shawn thinks again. But as urgent as that thought is, it’s also fleeting. Sleep and satiation is pulling his weight down and shutting off his conscious mind. 

In the morning, he promises himself, nuzzling into Niall’s sweaty hair, his arm wound possessively around his middle. They’ll figure everything out in the morning.

*****

When Shawn wakes, the blanket is covering every part of him but his head and his feet.

There’s a dull ache in his limbs and his jaw. His throat is scratchy, no better for sleeping on a bed of dust.

And it’s quiet. Like, spiritually, existentially quiet.

That Niall isn’t there isn’t immediately concerning. He does have a job. And he probably thought there wasn’t a point in waking Shawn if he were just going to see him later.

Still. It would have been nice to talk before they went on with their lives. Shawn would make coffee; they’d sit at the kitchen table. 

He’d tell Niall how he feels – that meeting him was the beginning of everything, not just a career.

He wouldn’t have to keep acting like it wasn’t.

Shawn stretches out wide on the floor, dreading how much worse he’s going to feel when he’s on his feet. But he gets there eventually, almost tripping over them on the way to the kitchen. He takes a clean glass from the drying rack and opens the fridge for a jug of water. He fills the glass three times standing at the counter, chugging each one down in seconds. 

He puts the jug, now half empty, back where it belongs. When the refrigerator door swings shut in front of him, he notices something he didn’t before. 

A page of Niall’s notebook, tacked up with a Fisherman’s Wharf magnet.

Shawn frees it easily, expecting a suggestion for dinner or thought about one of their works in progress that Niall didn’t want to forget. On the contrary, what Niall’s left him, he struggles to understand, let alone process.

_S,_

_I’m going home to Ohio to spend some time with my family._

_See you when I get back._

_-N_

Shawn drops into a chair, reading back over those two sentences again. He flips the page over and back again, searching for a phone number in Ohio.

But there’s nothing else to find. No point of contact, no clue as to when he’ll return…

No indication of whether or not Niall even still wants to work with him.

Shawn rewinds the night in his head, from Niall’s thigh against his in the bar to how satisfied he looked to have gotten Shawn off. They were walking on eggshells, surely, but there wasn’t any hesitation on Niall’s part. And though he can’t know yet whether Niall wants the same things out of their relationship, he had wanted _something._

 _Why did I wait so long_ , he’d said. Shawn didn’t imagine it.

Maybe he’d gotten it and it wasn’t what he anticipated. Or he got it and wanted to avoid having to reject Shawn when he inevitably asked for more. 

He needs to fix it, whatever broke last night. But Niall’s left him with no recourse to do so, probably anticipating that Shawn wouldn’t be able to leave it alone. Leave _him_ alone.

Shellshocked, Shawn stares into space for a few more minutes, then shuffles off back to bed and sleeps another heavy but fitful three hours.

*****

By the time the next weekend rolls around, Shawn decides to spare himself the pain from greeting each day hopeful that he’ll hear from Niall. It’s like a tap suddenly switched off, and where he used to have so much, now, there’s nothing at all.

Not to mention, there are too many hours to fill. There will be no diner breakfasts, no afternoons flipping through vintage vinyl at the record store. Every time Shawn walks into his living room, he still half-expects to find Niall laying on his stomach writing in his notebook, his feet kicked up over his head like a little kid.

Somehow, he makes it to the next gig.

Or at least part of him does. As he stands with the rest of the band in the closet-sized space generously called a green room, waiting to go on, he’s so out of his body that he may as well be translucent. That, coupled with the general gloominess that arrived with him makes Shawn feel like he’s haunting the place.

No one comments on it.

Until the stage manager calls them up, that is. Shawn has his foot on the first step up to the stage when a hand catches his shoulder and jerks him backwards. 

Rodney studies him, concern in the lines on his forehead.

“Everything okay, man?” Shawn asks.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?”

Shawn is stunned into weak, breathy laughter. “What? Who?”

“I didn’t see it coming. Thought that boy was stuck on you for sure.”

“I–” Shawn stutters, then drops his eyes to the sticky floor. “It wasn’t serious.”

Rodney hums, doubtful.

“He’ll be back. It just...might not be the same.”

Rodney pats Shawn on the cheek once. His palm is so meaty, it almost feels like a slap.

“Use it,” he says.

He takes the stairs ahead of Shawn without another word. Shawn runs his hand through his curls and pushes out a breath through pursed lips.

He could, he supposes.

Taking his position at the piano, Shawn allows himself to. Every time before, he approached it like he was singing Niall’s stories and playing his own – things separate but complementary. But tonight, he lets them into his bloodstream, the words Niall first put to paper when he was hurt, confused, abandoned. They speak to him in a completely different way, and he, in turn, speaks through them. 

By the time they wave to the crowd and leave the stage, Shawn feels wrung out but also new, like washing on a line.

Afterwards, Rodney insists on taking him out for a drink. Somewhere the rest of the guys would probably go if they were invited, but are not, and that’s the appeal.

A bouncer who matches Shawn for height but could easily throw him over his shoulder gives them a stoic once over, though Shawn guesses that two people have never looked less like cops than him and Rodney. They're finally deigned a nod, thenn the older man pushes open the battered door and they disappear into the crush of bodies.

Rodney wants Shawn to feel something – a sense of community. And there is that. Underneath all the heartache, there’s safety and familiarity. On another night, he’d be much better company. He’d do a better job of appreciating this gesture.

But Shawn’s been to gay bars before. He’s picked up, he’s been picked up.

Rodney seems to think that he’s just a few willing partners from getting over Niall, but Shawn knows the hard truth of it. Hands ghost along his waist, disembodied voices whisper come-ons in his ear. The appropriate physiological responses kick in, but it ends there. 

They have a couple of beers at the bar, Rodney’s pity unmistakable every time Shawn shrugs off another possibility. Figuring that he’s dedicated an acceptable amount of time to his bandmate trying to make him feel better, Shawn announces that he wants to head home.

Halfway between the bar and his building, the pregnant sky opens up. Shawn pulls his jacket over his head, but the effort is futile. He’s soaked to the bone within seconds. Giving in, he takes it off completely, letting the drops pelt his skin and raising his face up to them.

There’s no more hope in trying to forget Niall, or at least that deep part of him that was Shawn’s for a while, than there is in pretending it isn’t raining.

When he comes up on his house, he notices a presence on his stoop – an outline of a person, sitting with their legs pulled into their body, shielding themselves from the rain.

The person sees him coming at almost the same time. Shawn watches them get to their feet. 

The porch light isn’t on, but the shape sharpens as he gets closer. His heart rate responds.

“Hi,” Niall says when Shawn is standing in front of him.

Despite his effort to stay dry, the part of his shirt visible under his jacket is plastered to his chest, his hair damp and wavy from the humidity. He looks ashamed but bright-eyed, and Shawn wonders how long he’s been here.

“You’re here,” is all he can think of to say.

“I’m sorry,” Niall blurts out. “I freaked out. I needed some space, to get my head right. But it wasn’t fair to you to leave like that. I think I just...didn’t know how else to handle it.”

“It’s okay,” Shawn assures him, a sinking feeling in his chest. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“I want to though,” Niall counters. “But first…” He digs into one of his jacket pockets, pulling out a square of folded paper. “Do you think you could do something with this?”

Shawn had been standing back, maintaining the tentative space between them, but he has to step under the small awning with Niall to keep the paper dry.

He takes it from him and unfolds it, eyes focusing to see the first thing he’s read in Niall’s handwriting since the note.

 _Moon shining_ _  
_ _Sun rising_ _  
_ _You're the one I want to wake up to_ _  
_ _Lights fading_ _  
_ _I'm changing_ _  
_ _Overthinking, I don't know what to do_

He snaps his neck up after the first stanza to find Niall studying him nervously. His wet hair flings droplets onto the paper.

“Keep reading,” Niall whispers.

 _I want to kiss you like the first time_ _  
_ _Hold you like it's not goodbye_ _  
_ _Wish I hadn't been so cruel_ _  
_ _I want to let all my defenses down_  
_Scream until you hear me out_  
_I'll lay it on the line for you_

In reality, Shawn knows that the only sound around him is the pounding of the rain and Niall's anxious breathing, but he can hear the swell of music as the chorus comes in – honest and regretful, but buoyant too. If the lyrics weren’t there, it would still sound like what it is: a plea. A plea from someone who’s sure.

_Take me back, take me back_

“You have to understand,” Niall says as Shawn’s eyes reach the bottom of the scribbled page. “I’ve never – it’s never been this intense. It all happened so fast, I forgot what I was like before you. And that scared the living _shit_ out of me. So I ran. But the thing is, Shawn, you were still there. I could go halfway around the world, and it wouldn’t matter. I’d still be thinking about you – wondering if you’ve eaten anything besides cereal that day or what you think about the new Elton John record. Wanting to see your smile..." He grins. "And your ass." Shawn laughs, but it comes out a little like a sob.

"I need you to know that I didn’t leave because I regret anything," Niall goes on, serious again. "Not one second. But I’ve never felt like this, ever, and I needed to make sure that it was real.”

“And?”

“As soon as I finished writing this, I booked the first flight home. Without you–” He shakes his head. “–it’s just words.”

Shawn smiles, so wide it hurts. He tucks the paper into his back pocket and reaches for Niall’s lapels with his other hand, pulling him out into the rain with him and sealing their lips together. 

Water streams down their faces in cleansing rivulets, sliding between them and into their open mouths. Niall clutches at his back desperately and Shawn holds him so solidly around his waist that he’s almost lifting him off of the ground. 

And though Niall occasionally grumbles that metaphors are overused in songwriting, this one feels apt:

It’s a new beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you're so moved, please please consider leaving kudos or a comment. And you can reblog the Tumblr post [here.](https://a-brighter-yellow.tumblr.com/post/632877885327392768/the-stories-theyre-not-in-by-abrighteryellow)


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